


Something Wicked

by persephone_stone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Daphne is a Badass, F/M, Ghost Adventure, Harry is sweet, Murder Mystery, Problematic Pureblood Expectations, They're cute, like really problematic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone
Summary: Daphne Greengrass is drowning under the expectations of her parents. As a member of a Sacred Twenty-Eight wizarding family, she is not allowed to have an opinion, a personality, a plan for the future—other than becoming a pureblood wife and mother, of course. Then, on the night of All Hallow’s Eve in her 6th year, Daphne is pulled into a mystery that will change everything: her past, her present, and her future.Rated M for mature themes, violence.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter
Comments: 45
Kudos: 213





	Something Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Big alpha love to [the_static_hum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_static_hum) who brainstormed this story with me SO MANY TIMES. She had tons of great ideas that I am so thankful for! And a big thank you to [NuclearNik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik) for beta'ing this and fixing all my weird punctuation.
> 
>  **Trigger Warning:** Our mystery ghost was murdered by someone she trusted. Without spoiling it in advance, if you think reading about this event will be triggering for you, then **SKIP** the part where Daphne and Harry are watching a memory in the Pensieve.

_October 31, 1996_

Loud music throbbed through the Slytherin common room, mingling with the drunken laughter of teenagers at the annual Slytherin Samhain party. The sound made Daphne Greengrass want to pull her pretty blonde hair out.

You see, that was the thing with Daphne. She was pretty. 

She had pretty hair, as in: _No, you may not cut your hair, Daphne. Don’t you know men like long hair?_

She had a pretty smile, as in: _Smile, Daphne. No one wants to marry a woman who sulks._

She had a pretty figure, as in: _Oh dear, Daphne. You need to cut back on the Honeyduke’s chocolate bars. I’ve noticed that your robes have been looking a bit tighter around the hips. Here, have a lovely bit of sliced apple, instead._

What Daphne wasn’t, or couldn’t be—at least according to her overbearing mother—was smart. Or funny. Or opinionated. Or anything other than a perfect, pureblood Sacred Twenty-Eight heiress who would one day marry a perfect, pureblood Sacred Twenty-Eight heir and pop out a few perfect, pureblood Sacred Twenty-Eight babies. Then—and _only_ then—would Daphne be allowed to have thoughts and feelings and a personality of her own.

So here she sat, alone near the enormous stone fireplace, while the rest of her housemates—in addition to several Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and even a few Gryffindors—danced around her, apparently suffering from none of the same ennui that had her idly wondering what the point of it all was.

Green, watery light shifted around her, filtering through the large glass window behind her that looked out into the depths of the Black Lake. The lazy movements of the Giant Squid could just be made out through the murky water, and Daphne watched it, transfixed, more interested in the behavior of a cephalopod than that of her peers.

So focused was she on the squid that she didn’t notice the merperson approaching the window until its glowing yellow eyes were directly in front of her, forcing a surprised shriek from her throat. She jumped from her seat, tripping over her own feet as she stumbled backward. She attempted to calm her racing heart by taking several deep breaths, one hand clenched tightly in the dark green wool of her jumper.

The merperson gestured frantically to her through the window, beckoning for her to come closer. Daphne pressed her hands to the glass, eyes moving over the merperson’s face, searching for some kind of indication as to what the problem was, exactly. The scaly green skin of one of the merperson’s webbed hands pointed desperately upward, toward the surface of the Black Lake. 

“You want me to go up to the surface?” She knew the question was stupid—merpeople didn’t speak English any more than she spoke mermish—but the merperson seemed to understand, nodding its head hard enough to send its long, kelp-like hair waving sinuously through the water.

“Okay,” she breathed, giving the merperson a thumbs-up for clarity. “I’ll be right there.”

She turned, pushing through the throngs of people, getting temporarily stuck between two gyrating fifth years. She broke free with a frustrated growl, stumbling through the doors that led to the dungeon hallway and running straight into the arms of none other than Harry fucking Potter.

“Aargh!” he yelped, tumbling backwards onto the stone floor. Daphne crashed down on top of him, chin landing hard against his collarbone, legs tangled with his.

They both lay frozen for a moment, equilibriums literally and figuratively thrown off balance by their sudden introduction to the ground.

Then Daphne groaned, rolling off Potter and onto her back, watching him curl into the fetal position and cup his hands over his groin.

“What the fuck, Greengrass?” he wheezed. “You kneed me right in the bollocks!”

“‘What the fuck,’ me? What the fuck, _you?_ ” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing at her chin. “What are you doing down here? I know you weren’t invited to the Slytherin Samhain party.”

“None of your damn business,” he shot back. “You’d just run and tell Malfoy, anyway.”

Daphne snorted. “Draco? Why would I tell that arsehole anything?”

Harry gaped at her, eyes going round behind his glasses. He shook his head to clear it, then pushed to his feet and extended his hand to her. 

Sighing, she took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. She busied herself with brushing dust off the arse of her jeans, and Harry followed suit, shaking out his jacket and rubbing the back of his head gingerly. 

“I erm, I thought you were friends with Malfoy,” he finally said, glancing sheepishly at her.

She scoffed. “No, not particularly. I mean, our parents are negotiating a betrothal contract, but he’s not someone I regularly talk to.”

“But you’d marry him?!” Harry squeaked, horrified.

She rolled her eyes, pushing past him to head up the stairs. “Don’t really have much of a choice in the matter, Potter.”

To her surprise, he followed her. “That’s not—that can’t be—I mean,” he broke off, muttering under his breath before trying again. “I’m sorry, Greengrass. That’s bloody awful.”

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him—only to have _him_ crash into _her._ His forward momentum knocked her back, but his Seeker reflexes kicked in this time. Strong hands came up to grab her by the shoulders before she could fall. 

They stood with their faces inches apart, breathing heavily, his hands flexing on her narrow shoulders. His eyes really _were_ quite green, she thought.

Green. Green like—

“The merpeople,” she whispered, pulling out of his grasp and turning to run up the remainder of the stairs to the Entrance Hall. 

“What?” she heard Harry’s voice call from behind her but didn’t stop—forcing her feet to move faster, pushing the huge wooden doors open and fleeing out into the darkness.

She ran across the wide lawns of the school grounds and around the corner, heart pounding as the inky waters of the Black Lake came into view. When she reached the water’s edge, she stopped, breath sawing harshly in and out of her lungs as she searched for the merperson who had communicated with her in the dungeons.

Thundering footsteps sounded behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder, watching the dark form of Harry Potter approaching. He managed to stop in time rather than crashing into her again, leaning over to clutch his knees as he caught his breath.

“Bloody hell,” he panted, glancing up at her from underneath the dark hair that fell across his forehead. “You’re really fast, do you know that?”

She smirked at him, tossing her own hair over one shoulder. “I do.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why did you follow me?”

Harry stood, grimacing. “Well I couldn’t bloody let you come out here alone, now could I? What with it being Halloween and you know,” he gestured at the night sky, “dark and everything.”

“You think I’m afraid of the dark?” Her voice was sharp, angry. “Is it because I’m a girl?”

He shot her an insulted look. “No! Not at all. It’s just—Halloween is a hard night for me, and I don’t particularly like traipsing about in the dark, so I thought you might not either—”

She watched him sputter a moment longer before taking pity on him. She hadn’t thought of it when she first went hurtling into him, but she supposed the anniversary of the night the darkest wizard in history tried to kill you but ended up killing both your parents instead _would_ be a rather difficult night to get through. 

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, and he stopped, meeting her eyes in silent gratitude.

“So why did you run out here like that?” he asked.

Daphne opened her mouth to respond, but just then a horrible screeching filled the air. They turned in unison, Harry’s hand darting out to grab her arm and pull her behind him. She rolled her eyes again, shrugging off his hand and moving past him toward the sound, eyes searching the surface of the lake for the merperson.

Finally, she saw it, its upper body silhouetted against the moonlight, eerie reflection rippling beneath it. It waved one hand at her, pointing furiously with the other toward the center of the lake.

Daphne looked in the direction it pointed and felt her blood freeze in her veins. There, standing upon the water, ice forming underneath its feet, was a ghost. It was a young girl—perhaps only a year older than Daphne herself—eyes wide and haunted, dark robes and darker hair dripping with spectral droplets of water. Her mouth was open, moving, but no sound came out. Her face broke Daphne’s heart; it was lonely, sad, afraid.

“Who is that?” Harry breathed.

Daphne shook her head. “I have no bloody idea.”

The merperson’s screeching continued, becoming sadder and more beseeching as it, too, stared at the spectral figure of the girl. 

Harry’s voice shook as he spoke again. “What do we do?”

Locking eyes with the girl, Daphne knew there was only one answer to that question. “We help her.” 

Kicking off her shoes, she waded into the Black Lake, ignoring Harry’s hiss of protest behind her. “Honestly, aren’t you supposed to be the Chosen One?” she tossed over her shoulder, allowing herself a brief smile of satisfaction as she heard him splash into the water behind her.

Her instincts proved to be correct; as soon as they were waist-deep in the lake, the ghostly figure of the girl moved toward them, holding her hand out in supplication. Dangling from her fingertips was a locket, a lotus blossom engraved on one side of the filigreed silver. Daphne was just able to make out the letters “EG” engraved on the back.

“Are those your initials?” Daphne asked the ghost, teeth starting to chatter from the icy water. “EG?” 

The ghost nodded slowly. 

“When did you die?” Harry asked from his place at her side.

The ghost paused, then held up a series of fingers: 1, 8, 9, 6.

“One hundred years ago,” Harry breathed.

“Yes, Potter, I can also add and subtract,” she hissed back, before speaking once more to the ghost. “Did someone hurt you?”

A nod. _Yes._

“Did someone... kill you?”

_Yes._

“Do you know who did it?”

_Yes._

“Does anyone else know who did it?”

_No._

“I think that’s it,” Daphne said, as much to the ghost as to Harry. “She wants us to find out who killed her. We have to let everyone know, so her spirit can rest. Right?” she clarified with the ghost, who nodded sadly.

Harry’s voice cut in suddenly. “Did you die on Halloween?”

Another sad nod. _Yes._

“So did my parents,” he said, so quietly that Daphne knew he wasn’t talking to anyone other than himself.

She turned, her attention pulled from the dead girl to the very much alive boy beside her, the boy who always seemed so invincible, larger than life. As she watched him now and saw the internal battle he fought with his emotions, she realized that she had probably not been quite fair to Harry Potter before just now. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was more than they appeared.

His eyes lifted and met hers, raw and vulnerable.

She reached out her hand, grasping his tightly. 

“We’ll do this together,” Daphne said. “None of us have to be alone tonight.”

He nodded, and with a whispered promise to the ghostly girl, they waded to shore.

A few drying charms and a trek back to the castle later, Daphne and Harry stood just inside the Entrance Hall, shivering the last traces of adrenaline from their systems.

“Right,” Harry began, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “We should probably start in the library?”

Daphne flipped her hair, frowning at him. “Why would we start there?”

He blinked, mouth opening and closing stupidly for a moment before answering. “Well, er, because that’s what Hermione would do?”

“Look,” Daphne said, taking his arm and pulling him down a corridor. “I know that Hermione Granger is very smart and probably single-handedly responsible for you and Weasley not getting expelled—or worse, _killed_ —before now. But you’re not with Hermione Granger.” She turned abruptly, and he stumbled, face stopping mere inches from her own. “You’re with me.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flying back up to meet her eyes. A light blush colored his cheekbones, and Daphne was surprised to learn that she would have found it quite adorable—had they not had more important things to focus on, of course.

“So where are we going, then?” he finally asked.

“To talk to Professor Binns.” And with that, she spun on her heel, dragging him behind her toward the staff quarters.

“Professor Binns?” he squawked. “The ghost who doesn’t even know he’s a ghost? Who is so boring he puts himself to sleep? _That_ Professor Binns?!” 

Daphne ignored him.

They hurried down a flight of stairs, their shadows dancing along the stone walls in the light of hundreds of floating candles.

Coming to a stop in front of an arched wooden door, she lifted her fist and banged loudly upon it. “Professor Binns? Professor Binns, it’s Daphne Greengrass.”

For a moment there was no response, then a thin, droning voice came through the wood. “Miss Greengrass, dear. It’s quite late. Can’t this wait until class on Monday?”

She gritted her teeth, summoning every ounce of Sacred Twenty-Eight snobbery in her DNA. “I do apologize for the lateness of the hour, Professor, but it’s rather important. An emergency, as it were.”

They waited for another moment, the silence stretching into almost unbearable tension until—with a loud _pop!_ —Professor Binns’s head appeared through the center of his door, startling them both. “How may I help you?” he drawled sleepily.

“Do you know of a student who was killed on school grounds in 1896?” Harry blurted. Daphne shot him a dirty look from the corner of her eye.

Professor Binns pursed his lips, thinking. “I was not a professor in 1896, you know.”

“We know, Professor,” Daphne said soothingly, trying to smooth over Potter’s blundering. “But who would know better than you—the History of Magic professor—about happenings around the castle?”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Greengrass, but I have no knowledge of any such event. I could consult my texts, but that would take me days. Weeks, even.”

Daphne’s face fell. She had been so sure he would know something. Then again, if he had, would the girl’s death still be a mystery after all this time?

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said, taking Daphne’s hand and beginning to lead her away. “Have a nice night.”

Professor Binns was already disappearing back through the door, nodding as he went.

They tromped back up the stairs dejectedly. In the darkened hallway at the top, Daphne sighed, leaning against the nearest wall and sliding down to sit on the floor. She dropped her head into her hands, watching as Harry’s battered trainers appeared in her line of vision. 

The next thing she knew, he was sitting in front of her, legs near enough to hers to touch. His hand hovered over her foot briefly before coming to rest on her ankle, sending a tingling sensation up her entire leg to her—oh. Oh no. She was not going to have sexual thoughts about Harry Potter. 

She absolutely was _not._

“Sorry that didn’t work out,” he said. His voice was low, husky. She risked a glance up at his face and immediately wished she hadn’t because the dim light of the hallway threw every angle of his face into sharp relief. She was pretty sure her mother would kill for cheekbones like his.

Daphne cleared her throat. “Erm, that’s okay. We’ll figure something else out.” She sighed again, leaning her head back against the wall and looking up at the ceiling, high above their heads and charmed to look like a stormy sky. “If only there were someone we could talk to who was here in 1896.”

A strangled noise came from Harry’s direction, and she lowered her head to find him looking as though he’d just been hit over the head. “Daphne,” he said, a slow smile appearing on his face. “There is.”

Then he was standing again, pulling her up with him, not letting go of her hand as they ran to the Grand Staircase, then down several flights of stairs to the dungeons. Rather than turning right to go to the Slytherin common room, they turned left, blood rushing in Daphne’s ears as they ran. 

Is this how Gryffindors felt all the time? It was exhausting.

Also exhilarating. 

“Want to tell me where we’re going, Potter?”

He grinned at her over his shoulder, even white teeth flashing. Her heart tripped in her chest, and it had nothing to do with the fact that they were running.

“Do you know who the house ghost of Gryffindor is?” he asked.

She nodded, blonde hair flying about her shoulders. “Nearly Headless Nick?”

“Right,” he said. “Nearly Headless Nick who has been dead for over 500 years. Over 500 years _tonight._ Which means,” he continued, coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors, “that he will have gathered all his friends together for his deathday party. There has to be at least one ghost here who knows _something_ about that girl on the lake.”

“Potter,” Daphne whispered, trying to catch her breath, “that’s actually quite brilliant.”

“I have my moments,” he shrugged, looking quite pleased with himself nonetheless. “And please—call me Harry.”

They pushed through the doors together into the party of ghosts, all too busy dancing about to melancholy music and floating through rotten dishes of food to notice two living teenagers in their midst. 

Harry led her toward the head table, careful to walk around rather than through Nearly Headless Nick’s guests. 

“Harry!” Nick cried in surprise, throwing his arms wide and floating toward them as they approached. Daphne watched, fascinated, as the Gryffindor house ghost called a halt to the music and dancing, directing all the other ghosts’ attention to Harry. 

“Everyone? Everyone!” he cried, puffing himself up with pride. “My dear friend Harry Potter has once again made it a special point to come to my deathday party. And he has brought a new friend this year! I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making this lovely witch’s acquaintance, Harry,” Nick scolded. “Will you please do the honors of introducing everyone to your lady friend?”

“Erm,” Harry said, cheeks flushing pink. “This is my friend. New friend. Just a friend. Uh, Daphne. Daphne Greengrass.”

“Greengrass?” The ghost of a witch dressed in an elaborate, Victorian-era ballgown floated toward them as the other ghosts resumed their entertainments. “As in Leopold Greengrass?”

“That was my great-great-grandfather’s name, yes.”

“I knew him well,” the woman said. “We were in Slytherin together, back in my time.”

Daphne drew a sharp breath. Was their luck about to change?

“Pardon me for not recognizing you,” she began, calling on every bit of the pureblood genealogy her mother had drilled into her brain since she was old enough to read. “What is your name, ma’am?”

“I am Mary Rabnott Rosier, of course,” the woman sniffed. “Leopold and I were actually betrothed, before—well. Before all that horrible business with his sister.”

“His sister?” Daphne repeated, heart flipping in her chest. “I—I beg your pardon, but Leopold Greengrass was an only child.”

“Ha!” Mary cackled, throwing her head back. “He most certainly was _not._ He had an older sister, but she—she died.” The amusement abruptly faded from Mary’s translucent face, replaced with a look that was equal parts wary and sad.

Harry, perhaps seeing that Daphne was a bit shell-shocked, took over the questioning. “How did she die? And why would her own descendant not know about her?”

“Well, you see—the thing is,” Mary stammered, removing a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing daintily at her forehead, as though she still had the ability to perspire. “It’s—well, it’s not really something one speaks about in polite company.”

“We aren’t that polite,” Harry said, winking at the ghost of a woman who—even had she been alive—would have been old enough to be his grandmother.

Surprisingly, she flushed, simpering prettily at Harry. “I see why Sir Nicholas likes you, you cheeky boy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She gestured for them to follow her, floating toward a back corner of the room where there weren’t as many ghosts about who could eavesdrop. Once there, she turned, swirling her skirts dramatically as she leaned toward them, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Emmeline Greengrass,” she began, pausing so long that Daphne began to wonder if she wasn’t stringing them along just to have someone to talk to. But then with a sigh, she finished her thought. “She took her own life. Drowned herself in the Black Lake during her seventh year at Hogwarts.”

A ringing began in Daphne’s ears, pieces of the night’s puzzle slamming into place. “Emmeline?” she repeated breathlessly. “Her name was Emmeline Greengrass?”

“E.G.” Harry murmured beside her.

“Such a pity,” Mary agreed sadly, clutching at a necklace around her neck. 

“Daph—” Harry began, but Daphne had already seen it and reached a hand toward it before she remembered that it was one, noncorporeal and two, rude to touch another person’s jewelry without at least asking first.

“Your necklace,” she said instead, withdrawing her hand and tucking it behind her back. “It’s so lovely. Is that a lotus blossom engraved onto the locket?”

Mary beamed at them. “Yes! Now _that_ is something I wouldn’t expect you to know about, as it was shut down not long after Emmeline’s death, but you've surprised me again! Has the Secret Seventeen Society been revived?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Daphne merely shook her head.

“Oh, now that’s a shame. A better organization for pureblood witches and wizards couldn’t be found. It was made up of the _best_ seventeen families among the Sacred Twenty-Eight—including the Greengrasses and Rosiers, of course—in order to make friends, form alliances, negotiate a betrothal, secure a job at the Ministry.” Mary gazed at a spot on the wall behind Daphne and Harry’s heads, seemingly lost in her memories of pureblood privilege and favoritism. 

“If we were interested in forming such an organization again, where would we start?” Harry asked, and Daphne’s eyes shot to his face. She knew what it cost him to even suggest such a thing, and she was horrified at the dark irony of The Boy Who Lived—at _this_ boy who had repeatedly fought and inspired others to fight against a blood-prejudiced fanatic—even pretending to want to start some kind of ultra-exclusive secret society for purebloods. A warm feeling spread through her chest when he returned her gaze with a subtle wink.

“Oh, well you should definitely see if the old meeting room is still in use,” Mary was saying, handkerchief now waving in the air to punctuate her words. “It was located on the fifth floor, next to the occamy statue.”

“The password?” Harry asked, already moving toward the door.

Mary let out a tinkling laugh. “No password, dear boy. Just have Miss Greengrass here prick her finger and place it on the wall. Her blood will let you in.”

Daphne and Harry looked at each other, faces mirror images of disgust. “Right, thanks,” Harry said, taking Daphne’s arm and pulling her from the room.

They hurried up the dungeon steps to the Great Staircase, Daphne feeling a bit of déjà vu. Had it only been a few hours since she first went hurtling into Harry outside of the Slytherin common room? Since she thought her life was hard and his life was perfect?

Moments later, they were in the fifth-floor corridor, rushing past closed classroom doors to find the occamy statue. Harry spotted it first, whispering Daphne’s name and pointing.

Daphne held her hand out and used her wand to slice at the skin of her finger without hesitation. The blood welled, and she pressed it to the wall next to the statue with only the slightest wince. The stones rumbled, shifting into an iron door with a lotus blossom emblazoned on its surface. She met Harry’s eyes before grasping the handle and pulling. They crossed the threshold, and the sconces lining the walls immediately flared to life.

It was like stepping into a time machine. 

Daphne walked to the center of the room and spun in a slow circle, taking everything in.

A large tapestry hung on the wall opposite the door, richly embroidered with the surnames of Secret Seventeen families. Moving portraits hung on another wall, presumably of society members. Daphne stepped closer, eyes traveling quickly over faces until she found the one she was looking for—Emmeline. Instead of the dripping, despondent ghost from the Black Lake, the living Emmeline smiled broadly, throwing her head back and laughing at something a tall, light-haired boy next to her said. The scene played on a loop—Emmeline smiling, the boy speaking to her, her laughing—until Daphne’s eyes blurred with tears.

In her periphery, she saw Harry move past her, heading to a large desk that sat beneath the tapestry. Pulling open the drawers, he rummaged through their contents, looking for what, Daphne couldn’t be certain. She was so focused on the photograph of her long-lost ancestor that it took her a moment to realize Harry was speaking to her.

“Daphne! There’s a false bottom in this drawer.”

Impulsively, she reached up to pull the framed photo of Emmeline off the wall, shrinking it and placing it in her back pocket before turning to help Harry.

He was bent over the drawer, pulling forcefully at the bottom. Daphne rolled her eyes, placing a hand on his arm to stop him.

Mistake, she thought, as she felt his muscles flex under her hand. She pulled her hand back as though she’d been burned, but not before he lifted his eyes to hers again, freezing her in place with the intensity she saw in them.

She cleared her throat. “Uh—you know you’re a wizard, right? Why have a wand if you’re not going to use it?”

He raised his brows at her, and she could have kicked herself at the unintentional double entendre in her words. Luckily, he didn’t comment; merely drew his wand and murmured a quiet _“Reducto.”_

Inside the drawer, they found a glass bottle, its contents unmistakable: the swirling, pearlescent mist of a memory.

“Why would someone hide a memory in a secret drawer of a secret room?” Daphne asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Because they had something to hide.” Harry carefully picked up the bottle, placing it in his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Right now? Taking this memory. Next? We’re going to sneak into Dumbledore’s office and use his Pensieve. After that? No idea.”

Daphne felt her eyes go wide. “Dumbledore’s office? How do you plan to get in there?”

He grinned. “I have my ways.”

His ways included a detour to Gryffindor Tower to “fetch something from his trunk,” a near-miss with the Head Boy and Head Girl patrolling the corridors, and then finally, the reveal of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, which rendered Daphne completely speechless.

Harry draped it around them, stepping close to her to ensure their bodies were both fully covered by the gossamer fabric. He bent his head even closer to whisper in her ear. “Not many people know I have this. I’m trusting you, Greengrass.”

She shivered.

The next few minutes passed in a bit of a blur for Daphne, as she was rather distracted by the scent of Harry’s cologne and the feel of his body pressed closely to hers. She pulled herself together once they were standing in Dumbledore’s office, following nervously behind Harry as he led her to the Pensieve.

He pulled the bottled memory out of his pocket, pouring it carefully into the basin. Then he turned, holding out his hand to Daphne. She took it, steadied by the solid feel of him.

They leaned over the rim, and the world around them dissolved. One minute they were inside the Headmaster’s office; the next, they were standing near the Black Lake.

__

A tall, sandy-haired boy walked from the castle to the lake, rushing to meet Emmeline where she waited beneath a tree. Beside her, the Black Lake rippled in the autumn breeze, lazy waves lapping at the shore.

__

__

He opened his mouth—perhaps to call to her—but the words died on his lips as another figure came into view. An even taller, black-haired boy with Hufflepuff robes on, his hand reaching out to take hold of Emmeline’s arm.

__

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The light-haired boy’s eyes narrowed, his upper lip curled into a sneer. He increased his pace before ducking behind a nearby tree, obviously eavesdropping on Emmeline and the other boy.

__

__

“What exactly are you waiting for?” the other boy asked, voice angry.

__

__

“I told you Simon—I’m going to do it today. I just—I can’t—you know this isn’t easy!”

__

__

The dark-haired boy, apparently named Simon, sighed, releasing his grip on her arm. He turned his back on her, and Daphne watched the hidden boy relax as though he no longer sensed danger. But when Emmeline stepped toward Simon, sliding her hands around his waist and up his chest, laying her head against his back, the hidden boy bristled, letting out a low hiss. 

__

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“I love you,” she whispered to Simon.

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The hidden boy’s eyes went wide with shock, then molten with rage. They burned even brighter when Simon turned toward Emmeline, taking her in his arms and dropping a kiss to her waiting lips. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

__

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“I’ll meet you in the Great Hall when it’s done,” Emmeline said, and then Simon was off, up the hill and toward the castle.

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The hidden boy waited a few moments longer, chest rising and falling rapidly with the force of his breathing. When he stepped out from behind the tree, he appeared to have himself under control. 

__

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“Merritt,” Emmeline said softly. Rather than the sunny smile Daphne had seen in her photograph, her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her eyes looked sad as they searched his face. 

__

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“Thank you for meeting me.” She took his hand, leading him to sit beneath the tree. If she noticed his stiffness, she gave no sign. “I have to tell you something. But before I do, please know that the last thing I want to do is hurt you.” 

__

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He stared blankly out at the lake, giving no indication that he’d heard her.

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She sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “Merritt, there’s no easy way to tell you what I’m about to tell you, so I’m just going to say it: I can’t marry you.”

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He frowned, brows drawing together sharply. “But Emmy, we’ve been betrothed since we were children. Our parents—”

__

__

“Our parents,” she interrupted, spitting the words out as though they were poison. “Never asked us, did they? Never gave us a chance to be anything other than what was expected of us.” She paused, patting his hand gently. “As proud as I’d be to be Mrs. Merritt Rowle, and as much as I love you as a dear friend—that’s all you are to me. A friend.”

__

__

“But I could—” he began, stopping short when she shook her head.

__

__

“No, Merritt. I—I love someone else.”

__

__

His face went blank again as he appeared to wrestle control of his emotions. “Who?”

__

__

She paused, a trace of fear crossing her face. “Simon Bennet.”

__

__

Merritt’s face flushed a deep, angry red. “You love a Mudblood?”

__

__

Emmeline pushed to her feet, eyes sparking dangerously. “Don’t you dare call him that!”

__

__

“Emmy, you are a pureblood. Even more than that, you’re a member of the Secret Seventeen! You can’t throw all that away—can’t sully your family’s line with Muggle blood. I—I won’t let you.”

__

__

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” she said fiercely, before softening at the look on his face. “Merritt, I’m really sorry. I know I’ve hurt you, but I hope we can still be friends.”

__

__

“He’s poisoned your mind, Emmy! He’s done something to you, hasn’t he? I’ll kill him!” His eyes were wild, cheeks flushed with anger and shock.

__

__

She shook her head sadly. “No, Merritt. All he’s done is love me.”

__

__

She turned to leave, running across the wide lawn. 

__

The scene dissolved. Daphne’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened as they were swirled into the next part of the bottled memory. They were back at the Black Lake, but now the sky was dark, an orange harvest moon reflected eerily on the lake’s surface. Emmeline stood beneath the same tree from the previous memory, dark robes pulled tightly around herself to ward off the chill of the night air.

Daphne and Harry turned at the sound of footsteps, watching as Merritt Rowle approached from the direction of the castle. A chill snaked its way down Daphne’s spine; despite his handsome face and easy smile, his eyes were blank. Empty. Dead.

__

“I’m so glad you received my owl,” he began, taking Emmeline’s hand and stepping closer to the water. “I couldn’t bear an ending like we had earlier today. You mean too much to me.”

__

__

She smiled hesitantly. “I’m happy to hear you say that. I feel the same way, Merritt.”

__

__

He opened his arms to her, and she stepped into them, squeezing her eyes closed as she hugged him. 

__

What Emmeline couldn’t see—what Daphne and Harry clearly _could_ —was Merritt’s wand come up to slowly press into the back of Emmeline’s robes. 

__

“I’m sorry, Emmy,” Merritt whispered. “I’m so sorry. But I have to do this—for you.”

__

“No!” Daphne cried, pulling out of Harry’s grasp just as Merritt hissed the Killing Curse, the entire memory lit by a blinding flash of green light. Emmeline’s eyes opened in shock, and though Daphne knew her long-dead ancestor couldn’t see her—this _was_ a memory, after all—she could have sworn their eyes met in that moment. 

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched the scene before her. She barely registered Harry’s arms coming around her shoulders, one of his hands lifting to press her head into his chest. 

__

Merritt grasped Emmeline’s lifeless body, sobbing against her shoulder. Then he lifted her, walking slowly toward the lake and directly into the waters, only stopping when the water was up to his chest. Emmeline’s robes swirled out around both of them, her pale skin a sharp contrast to the dark water of the lake.

__

Another broken sob escaped from Daphne’s lips when Merritt let her body go, standing helplessly on the shore as she sank slowly beneath the waters of the lake.

The memory swirled again, sending Daphne and Harry on a dizzying journey through Merritt’s sprint back to the castle; his summoning of the Headmaster; his lies about Emmeline’s death, backed up by a forged suicide note; his crocodile tears in her family’s drawing room— _her_ drawing room, Daphne realized with a start—as they thanked him for finding her, for trying to save her.

Suddenly, a hand came down on both Harry and Daphne’s shoulders, surprising a startled shriek from Daphne and a muttered curse from Harry. They turned, looking up into the sad eyes of the _current_ Headmaster of Hogwarts—Albus Dumbledore, himself.

“I think we’ve all seen enough,” he said simply, and a moment later they all stood in his office, the memories they had just watched swirling gently in the Pensieve.

Harry’s arms were still wrapped around Daphne, and she turned into his chest, sobbing out her grief and anger. He bore it silently, gently stroking her hair, saying nothing.

Tension hung heavy in the space between students and Headmaster. As her tears slowed, she became aware of Harry and Dumbledore speaking to one another.

“—ghost on the lake. She was murdered by another student because she wanted to marry a Muggle-born—”

“—but how did you know where to find the memory—”

“—some kind of pureblood secret society—people should know the truth of what really happened to her—” 

“—yes, of course. I will take care of that. Why don’t you see Miss Greengrass back to her dormitory—”

When their voices died down, Daphne lifted her head, meeting the Headmaster’s eyes. They twinkled kindly at her from behind his half-moon spectacles, offering reassurance and comfort in the face of her emotional turmoil. He nodded at her, and Harry turned them toward the door, leading her away.

“He’s going to write an article for the Daily Prophet, exposing the secret society and providing the true story of Emmeline’s death,” he murmured as they walked. Her breath hitched, fresh tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.

“I need to write to my parents, too,” she said. “Make them see what pureblood extremism got our family. Do right by Emmeline…”

She trailed off, stopping abruptly. “Emmeline,” she breathed, turning to Harry with wide eyes.

He nodded, holding out his hand. “Let’s go tell her.”

At the edge of the lake, Emmeline waited for them.

Daphne stepped toward her, hand extended, a mirror image of their first meeting. “I saw what happened to you. How you loved a Muggle-born boy named Simon—Simon Bennet.” She inhaled shakily when Emmeline’s face broke into a genuine smile, transforming misery to joy. “I saw what the boy you were betrothed to did. How he—he—killed you, how he put you in the lake and lied about how you died,” she finished on a broken whisper.

Emmeline nodded sadly. She floated toward Daphne, feet leaving the lake for perhaps the first time in a century. She brushed her hand over Daphne’s cheek, and Daphne could have sworn she felt it. “I’m going to make things right with my—with our family,” she corrected. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long. You can rest now.”

Emmeline smiled again, reaching out once more to ghost her hand over Daphne’s. Then she closed her eyes, turned her face to the stars and slowly faded away.

After what was either a few seconds or a few hours—Daphne really couldn’t be sure—she heard Harry move to stand behind her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Are you alright?”

She turned, throwing her arms around him and burying her face against the warm skin of his throat. “I will be. Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much for helping me.”

His arms came around her, one hand gently cupping the back of her head as the other stroked a gentle path up and down her back. “Thank you for helping me, too.”

She pulled back, just far enough so that she could see his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He grinned at her, the fingers of one hand mindlessly playing with her hair. “You know, you actually make a pretty good partner. Hermione’s brilliant, but can be really overbearing, and Ron is more interested in what’s for dinner than in solving a problem. You’re smart and steady and determined. Maybe we should work together more often.” 

She returned his smile, feeling bold enough to slide her hands across his broad shoulders. The look on his face when she said, “I’d like that, Harry,” in a low, quiet voice started a warm, tingling sensation in her belly. That sensation only intensified when she lifted onto her toes, gripping the back of his neck tightly to pull his lips down to hers.

She had kissed boys before—she was a pretty girl, after all—but kissing Harry was different. His hands were gentle, one clutching her waist and the other tenderly cradling her jaw. His lips were warm and soft, his body strong and solid, his hair silky and wild.

He treated her with care, as though she were something precious. Not because she was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but because she was _Daphne._

And Daphne was someone she was very much looking forward to being.

**Epilogue**

_January 1997_

It was the first Hogsmeade weekend after the Christmas holidays, and Daphne was on a mission. She marched down the main path of the village, headed toward the Three Broomsticks. 

Once inside the crowded—but blessedly warm—pub, she scanned the tables and booths, eyes searching for a messy head of dark hair.

Finally, she saw him, sitting at a table with his normal Gryffindor friends, plus a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that she vaguely recognized from their shared classes. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and approached with what she _hoped_ looked like confidence.

The table went silent when she arrived. Harry set his mug of butterbeer down, meeting her eyes with a shy smile.

“Hi, Daph.”

“Harry.”

She ignored the startled noise that escaped Ron Weasley’s mouth, smiling pleasantly at the table’s other occupants. “Hello, everyone. Hope you all had a lovely holiday. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Harry for a bit?”

Harry didn’t wait for their answer—a good thing, as most of them were busy picking their jaws up off the scarred wood of the table. Instead, he stood, leading Daphne to a smaller table on the other side of the pub.

“How was your holiday?” he asked in a low voice, his fingers trailing across her back as she took her seat. She shivered.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “It was _amazing._ My parents were horrified at the truth about Emmeline. My father even spoke to his great-grandfather’s portrait to confirm that yes, he’d had a sister named Emmeline and yes, they’d all thought she’d committed suicide and brought shame to the family, so they refused to speak of her again.” 

She grabbed Harry’s hands, squeezing them tightly. His cheeks flushed—rather adorably, she could admit now. 

“My father went on and on about how proud he was that we discovered the truth. My parents and I talked for hours about pureblood expectations—for Emmeline _and_ for me. They both agreed that what happened to Emmeline was wrong. That she should have been able to love someone who made her happy, that blood prejudice is exactly what killed her.” Daphne leaned forward onto her elbows, eyes sparkling with excitement. “My mother lost it when she told me she’d be absolutely devastated if something like that ever happened to me, that she didn’t want me to ever doubt how much she cared about me.”

“And then my father told me I could have whatever I wanted for Christmas—so I asked him to commission a magical portrait of Emmeline. We used the photo I found in the old Secret Seventeen room. You’ll have to come see her sometime,” she finished in a rush.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Me? See her? At your home?” he stammered. Daphne smiled, but took pity on him, leaning even farther forward to press a kiss to his waiting cheek. 

“Yes, Harry. I told my parents all about you. How the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the vanquisher of the most evil wizard of all time helped me—and our family.”

His cheeks flushed even deeper, and Daphne was sure all his friends were watching them.

She didn’t care.

“I also may have told them that I really liked him. And hoped that maybe I’d be able to see more of him this term?” She couldn’t help it—her voice had lost just a bit of its confidence, unsure of his feelings.

But then he tightened his grip on her hands, pulling her toward him to touch his lips to hers. The kiss was soft. Sweet. A promise for more. “That sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you have a lovely and safe weekend, whether you're celebrating Halloween or not! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as [persephonestone](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/).


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